


The Woman in the Window

by daydreamtofiction



Series: Glass [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Mystery, One Shot, Romance, Sex, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:29:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamtofiction/pseuds/daydreamtofiction
Summary: A full-length short story set in a Victorian AU.When Mr Jenks sees the strange, ghostly figure of a woman in the window of an abandoned house, he calls upon the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Doctor Watson to get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile, trouble brews in Holmes' secret relationship with the beautiful yet ungovernable resident of 221C.This story is part of the Glass series and the Sherlock reader request collection.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Glass [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545352
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Woman in the Window

**Author's Note:**

> I found this story a real challenge (in a good way) to write. I haven't written anything Neo-Victorian since my undergraduate degree, so I went in heavy on the reading and research. So. Much. Research. I really tried to blend the style of my other Sherlock stories with the great ACD's to create something a little more authentic. And by 'authentic', what I really mean is 'why did victorian authors use so many words? Like, so many.'
> 
> Content Warning: This story contains a mild sex scene and the case contains a very vague mention of abuse/violence. 
> 
> I really hope people like this story! It's one of my favourites that I've written so far.

The Woman in the Window

The first time Mr Jenks saw the woman in the window, he tipped his hat politely, taking only slight offence when she did not return his niceties. It was only when he pulled his carriage away, his horse trotting slowly down the street did it dawn on him that nobody had occupied that house for many years, and to see someone inside was not only strange, but downright unsettling.

The second time was not much different to the first. Mr Jenks slowed his horse to a stop, allowing his passengers to climb out of the cab when he saw her there again. She was as still and unmoving as the first time, gazing through the clouded glass as if bemoaning the vibrant bustle of the London street outside. Once again, he tipped his hat, only to be met by a blank stare, and as quickly as it took him to blink, she was gone.

~*~

It had been an exceptionally warm summer in London, and like every day before, the ground had soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun and radiated it back into the air with an oppressive heat. The stench of sewage and carriage horses had been masked, rather welcomingly, by a blend of chimney soot and spices from the market, making Sundays perhaps the most favourable for a stroll.

Doctor Watson had taken his daily constitutional earlier than usual, escaping the oven-like temperatures of his home with an enthusiasm that did not usually accompany the idea of physical activity. He tucked a cane beneath his arm as he walked along the path that stretched the length of Paddington Street Gardens, sharing a nod with a passing couple and wrinkling his nose to ease the itch of his moustache.

He did not take appointments on Sundays, instead choosing to dedicate his time to research, answering letters and indulging in the delicious meals their landlady Mrs Hudson would prepare. It was, quite simply, his favourite day of the week. If not for all mentioned above, then most definitely for the time he would spend with his colleague and friend Sherlock Holmes, who himself had developed somewhat of a Sunday ritual for remaining indoors - and consequentially - out of trouble.

Doctor Watson arrived on the corner of Baker Street to find the door to his home ajar. Although not strikingly unusual, the question of why it had been left open induced a response that only the roommate of Sherlock Holmes could understand; he gripped his cane tighter, climbing the steps with bent knees and hushed breath before pushing it open and ascending the staircase to 221B.

There was a muffled voice coming from the sitting room. A gruff, cockney accent speaking over the occasional mumble and groan of another man. It did not take long for his apprehension to morph into another feeling entirely, first concern, then quickly to anger.

He stepped into the room and leaned his cane against the wall. "Inspector Lestrade," he said.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." The grey-haired man turned around, revealing behind him a familiar yet never-welcomed sight.

There, Holmes sat slumped in his leather armchair, arms folded, long legs bent awkwardly at the knees. His mouth was open slightly, eyes closed as if sleeping peacefully. But Watson knew never to trust the serenity on his friend's marble-like face.

"Sherlock," he said in a panic-stricken voice as he approached him, pressing two fingers firmly against his neck. "Sherlock, what have you taken and how much?"

"Already checked him, Doctor Watson. He's fine, just knocked out."

"Still, I would much prefer to know what kind of high I am dealing with today."

"Well good thing he's left you a note." Lestrade held up a small scrap of yellowed paper. "I must admit, he is by far the most _considerate_ of the misusers I've encountered."

"Unfortunately these notes are not so much consideration as they are an obligation."

"Well either way, I see the man's in no fit state to be speaking with me." He put on his hat and straightened his coat. "When he comes around, please tell him I was here."

"May I ask what it's regarding?"

"I was seeking some advice in the way of ballistics. A man was shot and killed near Marleybone station just last night, our only clue as to who the gunman is is the bullet left behind in the man's chest."

"Ah, well, I'll be sure to tell him."

Inspector Lestrade nodded his thanks and left quietly, leaving Doctor Watson to deal with the incapacitated, grumbling consulting detective.

~*~

By evening the air had cooled, delivering a soft breeze through the open window of the parlour. Watson sat at the table with his nose buried in a chapter of Gray's Anatomy, spilling crumbs into the pages as he munched on one of Mrs Hudson's freshly baked bread rolls.

Holmes had come around from his indisposed state, and since hearing the news of his missed case opportunity, had taken to pacing the floor puffing on his tobacco pipe and grinding his teeth.

"Tell me again," he said.

"He informed me that a man had been shot dead," Watson repeated. "They were hoping you could be of some assistance in matching the bullet to the assailant."

"Interesting." He pondered. His voice darkening in a way it often did when deep in thought. "I put a lot of weight in the idea that ballistic analysis could one day be the key to solving these kinds of crimes. Of course I always believed it would require advancements in technology beyond this lifetime. Though I do confess I find it rather frustrating that I missed the opportunity to test my theory when it was presented to me."

"Perhaps if you had not spent the afternoon poisoning yourself to unconsciousness, you may not have."

"It is Sunday, John. Nothing ever usually happens on Sundays."

A knock at the door disturbed their conversation. Holmes answered it swiftly, returning to his spot in the middle of the room with a young woman following behind.

Doctor Watson had always found Margaux Cave an attractive woman. She was bright-eyed with dark hair and full brows that made her more striking than most. There was a sense of mystery to her appearance, though being an orphan, she knew just as much as he did about the origin of her features, which was by all accounts very little. He thought her an out-and-outer; beautiful and endearing yet bold and outspoken in her beliefs, sometimes to a fault.

Since she had taken up lodgings downstairs, it had quickly become apparent that although he would never admit it, Sherlock Holmes had taken somewhat of a liking to her. He was less dismissive of her than others, even allowing her to share theories of his cases and experiments with an unfeigned interest in what she had to say. He was by no means warm towards her, simply less cold. Though Watson had been making some deductions of his own about the pair, deductions he had chosen to keep to himself for now.

"I do apologise for the late intrusion, but I was just going through my letters when I noticed one addressed to you, Doctor Watson. I assume it was delivered to myself in error." She approached him and handed over the crisp, white envelope. "If you don't mind me saying, Ms Morstan has _very_ pretty handwriting."

There was a flicker of mischief in the corner of Miss Cave's mouth, driving him to his feet with astonishment.

"I do beg your pardon?" he said.

"It is obvious she learned the information from the return address on the back," said Sherlock from behind his pipe. "Do relax."

"My apologies, Doctor Watson," she said. "Though I will also offer my congratulations."

"Whatever for?"

"Well if my studies of handwriting have taught me anything, I'd say Ms Morstan is quite taken with you."

"You got that from an address written on an envelope?"

She laughed softly. "I thought you would be more familiar with the notion of deduction."

"That's enough now, Miss Cave," Sherlock interjected. "Let us not wear the man out before he has even poured his nightly brandy."

"Oh actually, it is _Madame_ Cave now. I've recently taken up a teaching position at the college," she boasted proudly.

"You? _Teaching_ at the college _?"_ Watson replied, clearly dumbfounded by the notion.

"Yes. There was a vacancy they could not fill and I managed to wear them down until they accepted my offer. I will be teaching there until they find a man who can take up the position full time. Though, I have a feeling I'll be there for longer than they expect."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, they will do well to find a man more suited to the role than myself."

"You don't think there are any men out there smart enough to teach in your position?"

"Of course there are men smart enough, Doctor Watson." She leaned in towards him, speaking in a hushed tone. "But I'm smarter."

He sat down again, turning his gaze to the window as Holmes' lip twitched with the slightest flash of amusement.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

She left quickly without waiting for their response, the door echoing as it closed behind her.

"I'm beginning to understand why she is yet to take a husband," said Watson.

"Hm? And why is that?" replied Holmes.

"Because I imagine she would be quite the handful."

"Quite..."

~*~

The third time Mr Jenks saw the woman in the window, he had taken it upon himself to travel to the vacant house after dark. It had been three days since his last sighting and not a moment had passed where he did not see her forlorn face whenever he closed his eyes, though it was not without resistance.

He steadied his horse, giving her a hard pat on the side as he climbed down from the cab and walked towards the house, pushing open the iron gate that was rusted with a thick orange crust. He had come up with a plan to coax the woman to the door, though he wasn't quite sure of what he would do once she answered. Perhaps he would introduce himself, say he had found himself lost or at the wrong address, perhaps he would just stare at her for a moment in the hopes that seeing her face without the barrier of glass would settle his thoughts. But he didn't expect her to answer. After all, he wasn't sure if ghosts took too kindly to strangers knocking on their doors.

Mr Jenks was a logical man who did not deal much in superstition. Of course, he would never purposely walk under a ladder or pass a single magpie without wishing it a good morning, and yes, he had found himself stepping over the cracks in the broken path as he approached the house. But no, he did not fancy himself a believer in apparitions, more-so a fearer of things he could not explain.

He knocked twice on the door and took a step back. "Coachman," he shouted, deciding swiftly that he would pretend he was there to pick someone up.

But there was nothing, the air outside as still as the building in front of him. After a moment of waiting, he knocked again.

"Coachman. Here as requested."

Still nothing. He stumbled through the overgrown grass, pressed his face up to the window and in his clumsiness made a great thump against the glass. Inside, he could see the sitting room with peeling wallpaper and dust-coated floors. Large white sheets covered furniture that had somehow withstood the threat of looters and thieves over the years that the home had remained empty. It made him wonder if there really could be an uncanny force guarding the property, the thought sent a chill down his spine.

There was, after a moment, some movement. A dark figure emerged from behind the curtain and scurried to the other side of the room, disappearing out of sight as quickly as it had appeared. It filled him with a fright that caused the hairs on his arms to stand like pins. He took a step back to find the front door was now ajar, swaying softly with the creak of old hinges that had not been used for some time.

Against his better judgement, Mr Jenks took the open door as an invitation. He entered the home with a weary tread, as light as his stocky build would allow.

"Hello?" he called.

The silence was thick as crude oil as he searched each room.

"Is, is anyone there?" he called again.

But just as before, the only response was that of his own echo.

~*~

It was another hot day that showed no signs of relenting, the air so thick that students and teachers alike had taken to removing their hats and unbuttoning their waistcoats as they walked the grounds of the college. But for Margaux Cave, whose outfit consisted of nine layers of cotton, bone and lace, she had come to stand the heat better than most.

She opened her parasol and rested it on her shoulder as she walked across the grass, allowing a sigh as the shade relieved the sun's scorch on the back of her neck. Her other arm cradled a selection of books close to her chest, the pages crisp with annotations and small scraps of paper tucked away inside. Though she had been enjoying her new role as a teacher, the job had not come without challenges - mainly that of the young men who were seemingly disinclined to allow a pretty, young woman to be a figure of authority.

"Madame Cave," a voice called from across the courtyard.

She stopped and turned around to see Theodore Smith, a fellow teacher, jogging towards her. He was a soft-spoken man with short brown hair and lively green eyes, round and gentle like that of a boy much younger than his years.

"Mr Smith," she responded politely.

"I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the lecture you gave today."

"Oh, thank you. Well, if they must insist on having another member of staff monitor my lessons, I suppose I am at least glad that you find them enjoyable."

"I do, very much so. Though I'd love to learn more from you about the subject of handwriting analysis." He was eager in tone, walking beside her and mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "May I escort you home?"

She took a moment to regard his face, his kind and soft nature melting beneath the summer sun. He was not a danger to her, but instead a potential friend, eager to learn from her without the pressure of patriarchal shame sitting on his slight shoulders.

He carried her books as he walked with her all the way to Baker Street, hanging on her words like an eager student. And like a true gentleman, he stopped at the bottom step, handing her the books and tipping his hat with a smile.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed our time together, Madame Cave."

"As have I, Mr Smith."

"I am glad I could get you home safely."

She looked up at the darkening sky. "I very much appreciate it. And I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow."

"Yes. Your lectures are, without a doubt, my favourite part of the day."

She smiled gratefully before retreating inside the house and down to 221C where Mrs Hudson had left a small tray of food, undoubtedly left over from the meal she had prepared for the men upstairs.

Margaux spent the rest of the evening at her desk, the pages of her book illuminated by a small electric lamp that would flicker often, seemingly without cause.

By the time she retired to bed, it was after midnight. The events of the day blended with the unrelenting heat had rendered her exhausted. She took down her hair, allowing it to cascade down her back in fluffy waves, and had only managed to strip down to her corset and chemise when a startling bang rattled the walls around her. She remained frozen still before another loud noise stole the air from her chest and the colour from her face, yet this time, it only took a moment for her to realise the source of the noise was coming from the room beside her own.

She stepped out into the hall, seemingly untroubled by the fear of someone seeing her in nothing but her undergarments, and knocked her fist heavily on the basement door.

"Not now, Watson," Holmes' voice bellowed from inside.

"I am not Watson," she replied.

There was a scuffling and the basement door opened. "What seems to be the problem, Miss Cave?" His eyes fell upon her inappropriate attire. He immediately stepped back and ushered her inside, closing the door quickly behind them. "What are you-"

"Sherlock," she interrupted. "If you _must_ insist on using this basement as a makeshift laboratory then may I please request that you warn me first? Even a note slipped under my door would have sufficed."

"Why would you require a warning?"

"Because I'd only just begun getting ready for bed when I was frightened to within an inch of my life by the sound of whatever experiment it is you're conducting in here. I thought someone was shooting a gun through my bedroom wall."

He remained quiet for a moment as she regarded him sternly. He turned his back and sat down at the table where she assumed he had been working for most of the night. "Understood," he finally said.

She saw herself out of the room, only making it as far as the hallway before turning around and returning into the basement. She closed the door and approached at his side to see he had donned a pair of ridiculous-looking goggles, seemingly to protect his eyes from whatever had caused the loud noises. She reached down and slipped them off, holding them in the air above his head as he gave her a muddled glance.

"Forgive me," she said. "I wanted to see your eyes for a moment. They're rather... beautiful."

He did not speak for a long time, the air between them as close and oppressive as it had been when the sun was at its peak the previous afternoon.

"Not here," he finally said.

She gave a slight nod and set the goggles down on the table. "Understood," she said, repeating his previous response back to him.

By the time her fingers had wrapped around the door handle, his presence was behind her, so quick and cat-like that she was certain he could have glided across the room. Quickly, his hand found her shoulder, turning her around with an eagerness that was only perpetuated by a sudden, ardent kiss.

He pulled back and released her from his grasp. "My apologies about the noise, Miss Cave."

It was a secret. A secret that would ruin both of them if it were to ever come to light. The great detective Sherlock Holmes and the reputable scholar Margaux Cave had been engaging in premarital amorous congress for the best part of a year. At first it had been accidental, a sordid act that neither could take back after a momentary lapse of willpower, a scandalous, damning act that had tainted them in the eyes of a god that neither believed in. After their first encounter, it had become somewhat of a routine; they would meet regularly under the cover of nightfall, an arrangement that neither was particularly unhappy with since the sanctity of sexual intercourse was not something either of them gave much weight to.

But as it approached the one year anniversary of their secret affair, Margaux had begun feeling a desire for something more substantial than a kiss stolen in a dark basement or a secret knock on her door that only ever came once Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson were asleep.

Of course, she had yet to express these feelings to Holmes directly, and she was unsure if she ever would. It was an integral part of his identity, she had noticed, to be somewhat if not completely disinterested in romance, his flagrant lack of erotic interest in both men and women as distinct and ingrained in his physicality as his accent or the colour of his eyes. She often wondered what made her an exception to his rule; perhaps he truly felt for her in a way that he had not experienced before, though she had come to learn that nothing was ever so simple with him.

~*~

It had taken several weeks for Mr Jenks to gain an appointment with the consulting detective. He had specified in his letter that it was not a matter he felt appropriate for the police, which by all accounts was an intrigue to Mr Holmes and the reason he had agreed to see him.

He was escorted up to 221B by Mrs Hudson who did not hover once she had delivered him to the sitting room. There, Sherlock sat in his armchair where he flipped open a tin of cigars and slid them across the side table as an offering. Mr Jenks held up his hand, politely declining as he sat down in a chair opposite him.

Watson noted the man's nervous disposition, which seemed out of character for a fellow so large and burly. His coachman's coat was unbuttoned in attempt to cool off in the summer temperatures, his hair thinning at the crown, nose red with broken capillaries.

"Why don't you start by explaining your reasons for visiting today?" said Holmes, elbows on the armrests, slender fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

"Do you deal much in the supernatural, Mr Holmes?" Jenks replied.

"I deal in proving it to be false."

"Well, I must say I'd be much obliged to you, sir, if you were able to do that for me."

Holmes lit a cigar and crossed one leg over the other effeminately, his pale eyes studying the man's appearance.

"You mentioned," he said. "In our brief correspondence that you have been hagridden by a spectre you believe to be residing in a vacant house on Bishop's Walk."

"That's right, sir. A woman."

"Tell me, Mr Jenks, how long has it been since you were widowed?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

Watson's back straightened in anticipation, always eager to bear witness to his friend's extraordinary powers.

"You are wearing a wedding band and you keep a photograph of a woman in the cover of your pocket watch," said Holmes. "Yet the scratches on your shoes suggest they have been clumsily scrubbed clean by a heavy, unskilled hand. Being a coachman, it is safe to assume you do not have a maid, therefore the only explanation is that you have created the damage while attempting to clean them yourself, as there is no woman at home to do so for you."

He remained quiet for a moment before bowing his head solemnly. "She died in the winter, Mr Holmes."

"As I suspected." He stubbed his cigar and rose to his feet. "Mr Jenks you are indeed being haunted, but it is your mind which plagues you, not an apparition."

"But sir, there were footprints."

"Footprints?"

"Indeed. Footprints in the dust, too small to be my own."

"Well then we must go."

"Holmes," Watson interrupted. "You cannot possibly be entertaining this nonsense?"

"But of course I am," he answered cheerfully. "Go home, Mr Jenks. Rest well. First thing tomorrow morning we will convene at Bishop's Walk."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you." He shook his hand fervently to which Holmes' lip curled with a grimace.

When Mr Jenks left the residence, he passed Margaux Cave and Theodore Smith standing near the doorstep. In the weeks following their first walk together, Smith had not missed a single opportunity to walk the young woman home, a ritual she had come to somewhat look forward to at the end of each college day.

"Pay it no mind," said Margaux with a calmness as the large, red-faced man disappeared into the crowded street. "No doubt it is another one of Holmes' clients."

"I see," Smith replied. "I would enquire further, though I think I will wait to read about his escapades when they are published in the Gazette."

"A wise decision." She smiled, allowing him to lean forward and place a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"Until tomorrow, Madame."

She went inside and made her way down the hall towards her room when two sets of thumping footsteps thundered above her. She looked up to see Holmes and Watson descending the stairs eagerly.

"And where, might I ask, are your adventures taking the two of you today?" she said.

"Holmes has finally found a way of linking a bullet to a gunman," replied Watson. "We are off to inform Inspector Lestrade at once."

"Ah I see. Well if your culprit happens to be the man who passed me on the steps just a moment ago, he went left."

"Actually, that is a mystery saved for tomorrow," said Holmes.

"Sounds intriguing. May I accompany you on your next appointment?"

"No," the two men responded at once.

She shook her head as a laugh escaped her delicate throat. "I suppose you're right," she said wryly. "It would be rather disappointing for me to solve it upon arrival, before the two of you had a chance to make a theatre performance of it."

"You think yourself quite the genius, Miss Cave. It is, as always, delightfully amusing," said Watson. Although his words were cutting, he had been well-intentioned in his delivery. He did, after all, find her amusing.

"As is your height difference, Doctor Watson," she replied. "Always provides a laugh, to see your friend here standing eye-level with your top hat."

Holmes felt a tremble in his cheeks, a quiver in his top lip as he withheld the urge to peal with laughter. Watson's moustache twitched, his cheeks reddening slightly as she bid them a good evening and turned the corner to 221C.

~*~

Being so overexcited by the success of his endeavour into ballistic analysis, Holmes declined Watson's offer to hail a cab and chose instead to take a constitutional through the warm London evening.

It was not long before Watson noticed the direction his friend was taking them, although the detective was doing his greatest to disguise their journey as a light, aimless stroll back to Baker Street. He showed him a spot where he once discovered a body, delightedly, then began relaying the story of how he caught the killer with an apple core, all the while closing in on Bishop's Walk till Watson was so carried away with irritation that he begged he would divulge the true reason for their wandering.

"Yes, Watson, I confess I was too intrigued to wait until the morning. Though, do believe me, I intend only to observe the area. The true investigation begins tomorrow as agreed."

It was easy to spot the house in question for it was more dilapidated than those surrounding it. The men stood near the front gate, Holmes making brief observations while Watson eyed the window that had supposedly played host to Mr Jenks' spectre.

There, the figure of a woman appeared. Emaciated and pale as moonlight, hair matted falling loose over slender shoulders.

He gasped, reaching out and clutching his friend by the arm of his coat. "Holmes, I see her there, I do!"

"Where, Watson?"

"She is gone." He was positively perplexed by the darkness where she had stood just moments ago. "But how is that possible?"

"Tell me what you saw."

"Her eyes were heavy and longing, skin white as alabaster. She is just as he described her to be."

"Peculiar indeed. Well, on we go, Mrs Hudson will have supper waiting."

"You can't possibly suggest we leave?"

"Patience, my dear Watson. Tomorrow we will get to the bottom of this, but I have other things I wish to occupy myself with tonight."

~*~

The night came about quickly and without incident, and before Margaux knew it, it was a quarter to one. She had undressed for bed and turned off the lamp, leaving a candle burning on the desk beneath the window. The flame licked and danced in the gentle breeze escaping through an improperly secured windowpane, something she often reminded herself to speak with Mrs Hudson about but never found the time.

She lay awake in the muggy heat, bedclothes pulled back, and pondered over the strange and unexpected events of the day. She had come to expect the brief yet always bizarre encounters with Holmes and Watson, but something else was plaguing her mind, thoughts she could not escape until a familiar sound echoed softly through her flat.

It consisted of three quick, sharp taps, a pause, and two heavy, deliberate knocks. Sherlock. She rose from her bed and unhooked the chain from the door, opening it just enough to let his tall, svelte frame slip through.

He stood with his hands behind his back regarding her quietly. She was in nothing but her chemise, hair falling loosely over her cheeks and settling in curls atop her breasts. There was a gratification in seeing her in such a way - a way he knew no one else, friend or otherwise, ever got to see.

"There are only two reasons I can think of as to why you would be here at such an hour," she said. "The first: you have changed your mind about letting me help with your mystery, but you are too proud to seek my advice in the presence of others who may not be so open to a woman's opinion."

"That is not it," he replied.

"No? Shame."

"What was the second reason?"

She stepped closer to him until their chests were flush and removed his hat to look at him more clearly. He had a face that was rather suited to the drapery of candlelight, shadows falling in the hollows of his cheeks, eyes glistening with the flickering flame. She settled her hands on the sides of his face and pulled him to a stoop that allowed her to press her lips against his.

He put his arms around her and returned the kiss longingly, drawing in the fragrance of her breath until she fairly trembled with want. The searing kiss went right through them both, the muggy air less stifling than the heat rising between their close bodies.

She looked up at him, her cheeks suffused by a deep blush as her lustrous amber eyes met his in a fearless search of resolve. But instead of speaking in response to this mute examination, he kissed her again fervidly.

He took her to the bed and lay her down, slipping off her chemise and undressing himself twice as quick. Her corset had pressed puckers and indents into her soft flesh, still visible even after releasing herself from its binding a while before his arrival. He traced his fingers along the red lines, like a map guiding him along the plains of her frame, until finally he reached her thighs already parted in waiting.

He lay himself between them as she pressed her lips to his satin chest, covering it with burning kisses and the soft grazing of her teeth. He lifted his head and shot forth a humid glare, though, upon a single glimpse of her dissolution, the fire in his eyes seemed to languish beneath the dark silken lashes that bordered them.

"What?" she asked, rather brazenly, impatient to continue their act.

"The last time I let your mouth have its way on my flesh, I found welts on my neck and shoulders when I bathed the next morning."

She giggled.

"If you must do the same again," he continued. "May I request you place them more thoughtfully, in areas where they may not be so easily seen?"

"And who, may I ask, are you expecting to lay eyes upon your bare chest?"

"No one but myself. Though I have found viewing such marks in the aftermath of our lovemaking a rather unwelcome reminder of my weakness."

His words cut through her, overwhelming her with a shy, mournful feeling. If it were not for his body laying atop her own, she was sure she would have attempted to cover herself in shame. For the weakness he spoke of was, after all, his failure to resist the temptation of her.

He did not seem to notice her momentary lapse, taking her wrists and pinning them above her head as he trailed kisses along her neck.

"It bemuses me," she said. "How a tongue so sharp could be capable of such tenderness as this."

He melted into her with a slow yet deliberate thrust that drew a moan from her plump, parted lips. "Let us not talk of tenderness," he said, sighing against her ear with the pleasure of their conjunction.

~*~

The candle had burnt out. Holmes lay amongst the dampened scrumple of bedclothes with Miss Cave's thick tangle of dark hair tickling his jaw as she rested her head on his chest. After they had recovered themselves from the delirium in which their senses were lost for a few moments, the lustful trance which held them together had loosened. The room had cooled, standing to attention the soft, pale hairs on their arms and forcing Margaux to pull up the duvet and cover their naked bodies.

Holmes was not sure of the last time he had uttered a word but for the garbled mutterings that had spilled from his mouth in the peak of his arousal. The silence that followed their encounters was always drawn out, both parties content to retreat into their own minds while their physical forms remained entwined, deliciously spent. So when Margaux did speak, he found her voice to chime like a bell through the silence.

"Sherlock," she said while running her fingers delicately over his belly. "There is something I need to tell you."

"Yes?" he responded curiously.

"There is another teacher at the college, Theodore Smith. He has taken quite a liking to me over the past few weeks."

"This is not a surprise to me," he said. "I have observed the affect you seem to have on the sterner sex. After all, I myself have found the bounds of restraint too weak to hold me back from having my own way with you."

She noted the word again - weak, her next sentence stumbling across her tongue as it left her mouth. "He asked me to marry him." She paused for a long time, her ear pressed to his chest listening to the tambour of his heart. "I accepted."

He was quiet, unmoving like a cold slab of marble.

"He is very nice," she reasoned, though she was unsure if it was for his benefit or her own. "Handsome, quite wealthy."

"Do you love him?" he interrupted stonily.

She thought for a moment. "No. But he loves me. And I am sure over time I can learn to return his affection."

"Why would you accept his proposal if you do not love him?"

"Because I am getting older, Sherlock. I am at what is possibly the most important epoch of my life, which will pass just as quickly as it has approached. Just the other day I overheard Mrs Hudson refer to me as a spinster."

"I never took you as someone who cared much of other's opinions."

"I do not. But lately, I have found myself desiring an intimacy that goes beyond satiating the craving between my thighs."

She turned on her side, folding her arms and resting them on his chest as she gazed at him through the darkness. But Sherlock's eyes, stormy with a sudden vexation, seemed to look any way but directly at her.

"I have never cared much for the idea of companionship," she said. "Being an orphan, I learned I do not need nor want it. However these nights spent with you have caused somewhat of a change of heart - after all, you and I meet, we are intimate, but when it is over, you leave, and I find myself feeling more alone than I did before you arrived. I suppose I am after an affection more permanent than the one you are willing to give me."

"So you are marrying a man you do not love to _spite_ me?"

"I am marrying him because I do not want to be alone. He _loves_ me. Many women are not as lucky."

He rose from the bed. His previous state of satisfaction and vigour had been expended by indignation, and now instead of being able to speak with his usual precision and practicality, he had a palpable plethora of disgust which required constant movement in the way of pacing the floor.

"I am struggling, Margaux, to understand how you were able to lie down with a man while promised to another."

She sat up, clutching the duvet over her bare chest. "I would not say you, of all people, are in a position to chastise my morality. Or are skeletons only permitted in the closets of men?"

He let out a growl, flinging his arms in her direction. "Why must you always be so difficult? It is infuriating."

"And yet here you are, naked, in my home."

"The difference is that I am not engaged, nor do I ever plan to be."

"No, you do not. Which is precisely why I accepted Mr Smith's proposal."

He halted. "How can you apply a correlation there? You have never expressed a desire to marry _me_."

"Because I knew it would not be reciprocated. Tell me, am I wrong?"

He grumbled and bent down to collect his clothes, the fabric of his trousers whipping fiercely as he slipped them onto his legs.

"Well, no mind," he said. "I will save you the ink and decline my invitation now."

She remained in bed, stooping her head as a cry forced its way from her throat. "I truly thought you would understand."

"Understand? How am I to understand how you could go to bed with me so passionately, all the while knowing you belonged to another man-"

"I belong to _me_ ," she rebutted through gritted teeth, rising from the bed and approaching him swiftly, finger prodding his hard chest. "And I have more respect for myself than to spend the rest of my years as Sherlock Holmes' mistress."

"Well then I must insist on extracting from you a guarantee."

"What is that?"

"That you will not, under any circumstances, answer the door to me again. No matter how tenacious or convincing I may be, no matter how much cocaine is in my blood, no matter how much I confess to wanting you, you will _not_ allow me to engage in these acts with you again." He eyed her soft, bare skin. "I also recommend you do not wait till morning to wash my evidence out of you, I would hate for Mr Smith to find himself cuckolded before he is even wed."

She felt his vulgar advice like a dagger to the heart; his evident knowledge of how best to emotionally wound her gave him such an advantage that she dried up her tears and resolved instead to speak calmly. 

"You always say that others see but they do not observe. Sherlock, I beg you to look back on this conversation and truly _observe_ what I have said to you tonight."

He sneered and saw himself to the door. "Congratulations, Miss Cave, I do hope your new husband has a spine strong enough to withstand your verve."

~*~

Watson woke early, but exhausted. He passed the window to see another cloudless blue sky and took in what he could of the waking day. The street was quiet.

He dressed slowly and descended to the kitchen to find something to eat. There, across the way in the parlour, he found Holmes sitting at the table, pulling a small tin from the breast pocket of his jacket and taking a small fingertip of cocaine from inside. He pressed it to his nostril and inhaled sharply, to which Watson made himself known, wondering if his friend had even gone to bed at all.

"Ready, Watson?" said Holmes, springing up from his chair with pupils wide and black as coal pits.

"I think the question, my friend, is: are you?"

"Entirely ready. Let us make haste."

They descended to the front door to see the downstairs resident on her way out too. She looked up at the men though her eyes never settled, and Watson noticed the lack of smile that usually accosted Holmes' face when in her presence.

"Good morning, Miss Cave," said Watson.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Off to your well-scheduled mystery?"

"Indeed. Off to your teaching position?"

"Not right away. I still do have the time to accompany you both if you would so allow it."

"We are not such imbeciles, Miss Cave, that we would know nothing till you introduced us to the solution," said Holmes sharply. "And as long as you remain in your lodgings here, it will do you well to keep your nose out of that which does not concern you."

Watson heard a soft gasp leave her lips, and though it was she whose eyes began to water, he felt such discomfort from the exchange that he was certain a tear could spill from his own too. She stooped her head and left through the front door, disappearing into the growing bustle of the street as the two men followed down the steps.

Holmes held his fingers to his lips and gave an almighty whistle that almost immediately brought a horse carriage to a halt. They climbed into the cab and it began to move slowly when Watson finally turned to his friend with a stupor.

"Do you wish to explain?"

"Explain what?" Holmes replied as he once again reached for the tin in his breast pocket.

"While I myself am partial to a slight back-and-forth with Miss Cave, I have never seen such hostility come from your own mouth when talking to her. I must say it was quite off putting to witness."

"Well I do apologise, Watson, for causing you discomfort."

"Why did you speak to her that way?"

"She was prying, involving herself in matters that do not concern nor warrant her attention."

"But she is our friend-"

"She is our neighbour, Watson. Nothing more."

"Forgive me but I cannot agree."

"And why is that?"

"My dear friend, while you may be the master of deductive reasoning, over the course of Miss Cave's lodging at Baker Street, I confess I have been making some deductions of my own."

Holmes glared at him from the corner of his eye as the cab rattled and swayed around an uneven corner.

"You are enamoured by her," Watson pressed. "And though I cannot prove it, I would wager a guess that you have been intimate with one another."

"You are correct, Watson."

"I am?"

"Yes. Correct that you cannot prove it." He glanced out the small window of the cab. "Besides, whether your deduction is true or not, it does not matter. She is getting married - said she is no longer fulfilled by her current... situation."

"I was not aware she had found love-"

"She has not, or at least, not with the man to whom she has agreed to wed. I believe she loves another."

"Then you must intervene."

"I will do no such thing."

"You are a fool, Holmes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know it is- I know it is _improper_ to meddle in the affairs of another, but too much time I have spent worrying about what will become of you if I were to ever..."

"To ever what, Watson?" Though Holmes often prided himself on his cool demeanour, he could not help but outwardly display the irritancy he felt boiling up in his belly like a tea kettle.

"Well, if I were to ever marry, and move away from the home we share." 

"Ah, you intend to propose to Ms Morstan, and you are concerned that I will be so overcome with grief and loneliness, so much so that your solution is to have me take a wife of my own."

"I do not suggest you marry her if it is not in your heart to do so. But you are clearly moved by the idea of her in the arms of another man."

The cab pulled to a stop.

"We have arrived," said Holmes plainly.

"Consider my words, dear friend. Do not let your pride hinder your happiness."

~*~

Mr Jenks had been awaiting sunrise for some time. Unable to sleep, he had spent the majority of his night dressed in anticipation for the morning where his haunting would finally find resolution. He was already waiting for the detective and his colleague when they arrived at the top of Bishop's Walk.

Holmes prolonged the pleasure of his approach to the house, walking slowly, and often stopping to observe their quiet surroundings. After all, as Miss Cave had so boldly pointed out, he enjoyed the theatre of it all.

"Ah, Mr Jenks," he called. "Your punctuality is much obliged."

"Of course, Mr Holmes," he responded with a nervous quiver. "I am, as you can imagine, very eager to see the end of this."

"Well let us be on with it. I am sure, if nothing else, that this conundrum will be swiftly solved."

"What is your plan?" asked Watson.

"To go inside, of course."

The interior of the home was just as Jenks had left it, sheathed furniture and coatings of dust. They began in what was once a parlour, Watson taking note of the silver that still remained in the cabinets and the rat droppings that lined the skirting.

Meanwhile in the sitting room, Holmes placed himself in the spot where both Jenks and Watson had witnessed the woman. He bent his knees, stooping himself to a height more fitting for a woman and peered through the murky glass so as to get an idea of what she may have been looking at. From this position he saw a plain view of the street, beyond which a cobbled walkway led to a grassy vacant lot and beyond it the rooftops of the adjacent street. Twas nothing remarkable.

Watson and Jenks were behind him now, towards the back of the room observing the footprints responsible for their union. Holmes approached and knelt before them, magnifying glass in hand.

"I assume from the new layer of dust forming in the prints that they were made some weeks ago," he said.

"There are more just here, Holmes," said Watson.

He attended them swiftly, pressing his eye to the magnifier once more. "Fascinating." He rose to his feet. "These ones belong to a man."

"Are you certain?"

"Indeed. Remain here with Mr Jenks while I search the rest of the property."

"As you wish."

It had been all of a minute since Holmes had left them, when Mr Jenks was beckoning Watson over to another part of the room they had not yet searched. Nose upturned, he approached with curiosity, only to find his resolve shaken by a red smudge on a doorframe.

"Well," Watson began. "I believe this is your proof, that we are dealing with something that still resides on the physical plain."

"Sir?"

"I am a doctor, Mr Jenks, I know blood when I see it."

Their mullings were interrupted by a creak and a click that sent them both into a shuddering state of fright. Watson clutched his cane tighter, hushing his voice.

"Holmes?" he whispered. "Holmes, is that you?"

He knew, logically, that it could not have been his friend, as they had both clearly witnessed him leave towards the back of the house just moments ago. Yet with trepidation, he inched forward in the direction of the sound, Mr Jenks shadowing behind.

Watson yelped, most pathetically, at the sight of a woman in the narrow corridor. Though his equanimity did return to him but a moment later as a set of amber eyes crossed his own.

"Miss Cave?" he said with bewilderment.

She opened her mouth with the intent to speak but there was movement behind her, a hand was clamped across her mouth and an arm locked around her throat. The grip was expert, she could not breathe or move, the hot breath of her assailant in her ear. The two men did not come to her aid and she thought them cowards for it. Though, this was because she could not yet see that the arms she was struggling against belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

"Do not cry out," he whispered as he first released her mouth, bringing his finger to his lips in an instruction for the men to stay quiet too.

She took a deep draught of air as he next removed his arm from her throat, and turned to him angrily, pushing her palms forcefully against his chest. "How _dare_ you manhandle me like that!"

He shushed her assertively, his body barely swaying as she thumped him. "Lower your voice or you will be heard."

"Heard by who, Holmes?" Watson whispered.

"I have discovered something," he replied.

They followed him down the corridor where he ushered the two men into a room. Though as Margaux tried to follow, he blocked her way and stooped his head to speak closely with her.

"I told you I did not want you here."

"Which is precisely why I _am_ here."

"Leave, at once."

"No."

Her ungovernable spirit had always been a source of great amusement to him, their fiery confrontations often leading to many nights of impassioned congress. However, he was discovering that the sword of her strong will had another edge, and it was sharp and uncompromising.

"Margaux," he growled quietly.

"No," she repeated. "I am as curious and capable as you. And as you made very clear last night, you do not hear me when I speak. Therefore I have chosen to cease trying to reason with you."

He expelled a great huff as she crossed him, bumping her shoulder against his arm, and followed her into the room where the two men waited.

"Why must we be quiet?" Watson whispered.

"I believe someone else is here and I do not yet know if they are a danger to us. Now, tell me what is unusual here."

Watson let out a sigh. "Surely this is not the time for teachings, Holmes. You know well that your vigilance goes beyond the average eye."

"There is no dust there on that chest of drawers," said Margaux. "Suggesting it has been moved more frequently than the other items in this room."

"Correct," said Holmes. "See, Watson. You perceive, but in order to find answers, you too must observe."

With the help of Mr Jenks' robust arms, he moved the furniture aside. There, they saw a small trap door in the floor, the width of which, Holmes assessed, to be just big enough for a child to pass through.

"I believe your answers, Mr Jenks, lie beneath this floor. Now, if you allow me some time, I am sure I can call upon one of my street boys to come and-"

"No mind," Margaux interrupted. "I am sure I could fit through."

Watson gave a scoff at what he assumed to be a light attempt of humour. Though the sight of Miss Cave lifting her skirt and lowering to her knees convinced him otherwise of her resolution.

"Do not be ridiculous," said Holmes. "You shall do no such thing."

In keeping with her promise to no longer pay mind to his words, she lifted the handle and gave a hard pull, but it was secured by a small lock that she had not noticed before.

"You will not be able to open it without a key," a voice appeared behind them.

Mr Jenks turned around with a dramatic gasp. In the doorway of the room stood the woman, as real and solid as himself, skin white and translucent as taffeta and eyes sunken as a corpse. She was a slight, pixie-like thing, no more than nineteen or twenty years old, her shift hanging from her skeletal frame, feet blackened with dirt.

"Tis her, Holmes," said Watson. "She is the woman I saw in the window."

"Yes, sir, I am. Now please, we must act quick," she said. "You will have to break the lock."

"Why?" asked Watson. "What is down there?"

"The other girls."

"Other girls?"

Margaux heard a shuffling beneath the floorboards. "There are girls down here?"

She gave a weak, fearful nod. "You must help me get them out before he returns."

"Before who returns?" asked Holmes.

"Our captor."

There was a moment of silence as Watson, Jenks and Cave stared at the woman, mouths agape with horror.

"Who is your captor?" asked Holmes, seemingly not as troubled as the others.

"We only know him as Henry. He resides in the house next door, uses this place to keep us hidden. First it was only me, he stole me off the street some months ago while I was posting a letter for my mother, then before I knew it, I was down there with four others."

"What are his intentions with you?"

"Holmes," Margaux interrupted. "The specifics of her ordeal are none of your business."

"Tis fine, Miss," said the young woman. "He is abusive to us."

Watson grumbled. He had heard enough. "Jenks, hand me my cane. I will attempt to prise the lock with it."

"Why are you not down there with the others?" asked Holmes, continuing his interrogation.

"It took some time but I found a loose floorboard which I am able to climb up through when he is not here."

"But if you are not trapped, and the front door is not locked, why have you not fled?"

"If he saw that I had escaped, it would only lead to further beatings for the other girls. I could not leave, sir, till I knew I could get the rest of them out too."

"Why not wait until nightfall and lead them through the gap in the floorboards?"

"He chains them to the pipes."

"But he does not chain you?"

"No, sir. Though it did take some time, I have managed to gain his trust enough to where he believes I am broken and will not try to leave, so he lets me stay unchained as somewhat of a kindness, at least in his eyes. But I have never forgotten, and I want nothing more than to be away from this place."

"Why not run to the police and bring them here?"

"He's a bobby himself, sir."

"Surely not," said Watson in disbelief.

"Yes, sir. That's how he lures the girls - uses his uniform."

Holmes ran a finger along his bottom lip. "And how did-"

"I think that is enough now," said Margaux, rising to her feet and approaching her swiftly. "I do not believe it fair that you blame this girl for not escaping sooner, but not her captor for doing this to her in the first place."

She took off her mantelet and wrapped it around the woman's shoulders, a small yet appreciated offering of decency.

"My name is Margaux, what might I call you?"

"Anna."

There was a snap and a rattle as Watson finally broke free the lock from the trap door. He opened it and peered down into what felt like infinite darkness, before lowering himself, feet first, into the narrow opening, the bottom of his shoe finding a wooden step that moved and groaned as he placed his weight upon it.

"It is narrow, Holmes, but I will manage it."

"Very good, Watson. Here, take this blade and see if you can break the girls free."

He looked up at the pocket knife in the detective's outstretched hand. "All this time you had that on your person, yet you allowed me to struggle against the lock with my cane?"

He gave him the knife and waved his hand dismissively, pivoting on his heels with a vigour that only came from arriving at the peak of a case.

"Now, Jenks," he said. "Take your cab and travel to Scotland Yard at once. Ask for Inspector Lestrade, and be sure to say you are there under the instruction of Sherlock Holmes. Do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone but him why you are there. If this Henry fellow really is a member of the constabulary, then we cannot risk him hearing of this rescue operation before he is apprehended."

The man nodded and left hurriedly.

"I have found them, Holmes!" Watson shouted from the depths of the basement. "There are indeed four of them, as she said."

Though it was not the great, calculated end that Sherlock Holmes had come to expect from a case that promised ghosts and ghouls, and he had not had to don a disguise or use his powers of deduction and trickery to crack a baffling mystery, he was still pleased with the outcome.

In no time, Inspector Lestrade and his officers burst through the door and he knew, in that moment, that the case of the woman in the window was over.

~*~

The heat of the day had given way, at last, to a pleasant evening. Holmes and Watson climbed out of a cab that had stopped outside their home on Baker Street. They were talking amongst themselves, pondering what meal Mrs Hudson could have prepared for their return, when Miss Cave and her companion Mr Smith arrived at the doorstep beside them.

"Theodore, these are my neighbours, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson," she said with an awkwardness of tone.

"Tis a pleasure, gentlemen," he said.

Watson tipped his hat politely, while Holmes eyed the man with a coldness that could have lay frost over the man's skin. He continued inside without a word, Watson hurrying after him.

"Would you both mind waiting for me in the hall?" Margaux called. "I am most interested to discover the outcome of our rather eventful morning."

"Indeed," said Watson.

She wished Mr Smith a good day, allowing him to place a kiss on her cheek, and climbed the steps with haste. Inside, just as promised, Holmes and Watson stood in the narrow hall, waiting quietly for her to join them.

"I must confess," she began. "I have not been able to think of much else today, besides the sight of those women being pulled from the ground."

"Twas indeed a harrowing thing to witness," said Watson.

"What will happen to those girls?"

"Those with families will, hopefully, be reunited," said Holmes.

"And those without?"

"I do not know."

"And the culprit?"

"Apprehended."

She nodded.

Swiftly, Watson began to ascend the stairs to 221B, Holmes following behind without another word or glance in Margaux's direction. It was certain to her now, that he had deserted all the softness with which he ought to have had sexual connection with her to repose, and that without it, he were as good as a stranger. Worse even, in the sense that he did not look upon her with the indifference of a stranger, but with the despondency of someone who had once been much more.

"Sherlock." She took the bottom of his coat in her hand, giving a slight to tug to encourage him back down the stairs. "I surely cannot bear this. You are breaking my heart."

"Your heart is not mine to break, Miss Cave."

"And yet somehow it is in pieces."

" _Now_ who is making theatre of things?"

She gave a huff. "You would not be so upset with me if you were not hurt by the notion of me with another. I wish you would just admit it."

"I am hurt that you would use me as a means of pleasure while your beloved Theodore sits at home planning your nuptials."

"I am sorry for that, I am."

He turned to continue his ascent, but turned around at the resistance of her fist still gripping his coat.

"I am not too proud to go back on my word," she said. "Theodore is a kind man, a good man. However painful for him, he _will_ understand."

"You have already made your decision."

"I made a decision because the choice I truly want to make is not available to me."

"And what decision would that be?"

"Do not act so obtuse. I believe you have known my feelings longer than I have known myself."

He did not speak, looking down at her languishing amber eyes as they begged him to yield.

"Do you share these feelings, Sherlock?"

Still, not a word left his lips, his restraint unsheathing a dispiritedness in her that made her arm fall limp with the release of his coat.

"Just say yes," she said. "Tis one word, and it could change everything."

"Good evening, Miss Cave," he said, leaving her behind as he climbed the remainder of the stairs.

"One word," she said. "That one word is all I need to hear."

~*~

It had been some months since the case of the woman in the window. The days were growing shorter as the leaves began to rust, the air carrying a chill that only substantiated the privilege of a home with a fireplace and heated water.

It was a Sunday. And like every Sunday that came before it, Watson took no appointments, and did not intend to leave the comfort of 221B at all if it could be helped. Instead he took the opportunity to get on with research, and write a well-crafted response to his most recent letter from Ms Morstan to whom, as Holmes had correctly deduced, he intended to propose upon their next meeting.

Holmes inserted a wad of tobacco into his long-stemmed cherrywood pipe, which he favored when in a disputatious, rather than a meditative mood. He had already tried to engage Watson in harmless debate, though he was not biting, leaving him all the more restless as he struck a match with greater force than necessary to light it.

It was only in her absence that Holmes realised just how little he had valued his connection with Margaux Cave. She had been an intellectual sparring partner, and her affection had provided a source of great release when he found himself frustrated or at a loss with a mystery. He could not count the amount of times he had sprung from her bed with a sudden revelation, as if their lovemaking had brought a clarity to his often crowded mind.

"Here, Holmes, I have received a letter from Mr Jenks," said Watson, a stack of letters on the table in front of him. "He has indeed kept to his word of remaining in touch with Anna. According to his writings, he visited her just last week, says she is doing well and her family is most grateful to you for returning her to them."

"Very good, Watson, I am glad to hear it," he said.

He traipsed across the sitting room to the violin that stood propped in a polished stand, picked it up and carried it lethargically to his armchair. He could play pieces, and difficult pieces, Watson knew well, because at his request he had played him some of Mendelssohn's Lieder and other favourites. However, for some time now, he had seldom produced any music or attempted any recognised air.

Leaning back in his armchair, he closed his eyes and scraped carelessly at the Stradivari which was thrown across his knee, as he released a gust of smoke from parted lips.

"There is something else here too, Holmes. One for each of us," said Watson, carrying two small, ivory envelopes and handing one to his friend.

He returned to his seat at the table in the parlour, leaving Holmes, as he had grown accustomed, to stew in his own misery in the sitting room. He opened the envelope and unfolded the paper with haste to see it was an invitation.

_Mr & Mrs R. J. Smith _   
_request your presence at the marriage of their son_   
_Theodore_   
_To_   
_Miss M. Cave-_

He had read no more when an almighty slam sent the walls rattling, a shudder through his bones. He hurried back into the sitting room, now unoccupied, to see the Stradivari tossed to the ground, the invitation addressed to Holmes upon the cold coals of the fire they had not yet lit.

"Holmes?" he called out to no response.

He went to the window where he saw the detective storming away from Baker Street in the cold, autumn afternoon. It was only as he was returning to the parlour did Watson have the sense to lift the invitation from the fireplace. He dusted off the soot, to which he noticed a small note scrawled at the bottom of Sherlock's otherwise identical invitation.

_I know you offered to save me the ink, but there is no expense I would not go to for you. Mr Holmes, my offer still stands true - one word. One word and I will let all the ink it took to write these invitations go to waste._

_Mx._


End file.
